The Fortune-Tellers

It's often from chance opinion takes its rise, And into reputation multiplies. This prologue finds pat applications In men of all this world's vocations; For fashion, prejudice, and party strife, Conspire to crowd poor justice out of life.

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The Curate and the Corpse

A dead man going slowly, sadly, To occupy his last abode, A curate by him, rather gladly, Did holy service on the road. Within a coach the dead was borne, A robe around him duly worn, Of which I wot he was not proud— That ghostly garment called a shroud.

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